by Kody Boye
I guess John will give me the next step.
I hope that now that this journal is over, it won’t become meaningless.
I hope I’ll keep writing.
I hope something will keep me going for however much longer I’ll be here.
–Day 48–
Six days until Christmas. John asked me if I wanted anything. I could only tell him that I wanted to stay longer.
“You know you can,” John had smiled.
I learned a long time ago that Christmas wasn’t just about presents.
When I was eleven and mom died, Dad took me to see Santa at the mall and I asked him for only one thing: For my mom to come back to life.
Obviously, that didn’t happen; and obviously, I stopped believing in Santa after Christmas day came and my mom wasn’t under the tree. She wasn’t sitting there, smiling with a camera as I unwrapped my presents, and she wasn’t hidden in a box, a mummy in a brightly-wrapped sarcophagus waiting for the tree robber to defile her grave. No. My mother was gone. She wasn’t anywhere to be seen.
That year—on my eleventh Christmas—I learned that Christmas wasn’t about presents. I would have learned that it was about spending it with the people you loved had Dad not gotten drunk and passed out on the couch, only to rise later that night with a hangover that brought out the bad side in him.
It’s sad to think that I have such a bad memory of the holiday. Oh well though. I guess there’s not much I can do about it.
–Day 49–
I’m starting to run out of ideas, so I guess I’ll start counting down the days until Christmas.
Five.
John’s been at work more and more the past few days. Maybe it’s because of the holidays. People say the holidays are bad for violence. People drink, get riled up, set off fireworks, pull out guns to ‘salute the Big Guy up in the sky.’ I’ve heard a few noises since yesterday. Maybe people are counting down just like I am, or maybe people are ending it so they don’t have to count down anymore.
I dunno.
To John—hopefully you won’t have to go into work within the next few days. I’d hate to think that you have to work to the bone right before the holidays.
–Day 50–
I can’t believe I’ve been writing in this journal for fifty days. It’s already more than halfway full. If I keep writing at this rate, I’m going to need another journal come time for the eightieth day.
Four days until Christmas.
A part of me is starting to miss how much snow we used to have at home. Another part of me is thankful for the temperate weather and the fact that it’s not freezing cold here right now. Regardless, it’s a bit different, not being all the way back—well, there, I guess I should say.
It doesn’t really matter where I came from, not anymore. I’m here now. That’s all that matters.
–Day 51–
Three days until Christmas.
John’s been coming home the past few days dead-tired and with lines running through his eyes. “So many people,” he’d said, “so little time.”
He then proceeded to pass out in the recliner for three hours.
Now, as of writing this, he’s in the kitchen scrounging up some dinner for us, but he’s moving like a slug. His shoulders are hunched like he’s hurt his back and his movements are so slow he seems like a sloth navigating its way through the Amazon rainforest. Not that I’m sure sloths live in the Amazon—I’d imagine they would, but I don’t know. I guess I’ll have to look that up sometime.
Ah well.
Even if sloths don’t live in the Amazon, there’s one in the house right now, swearing at the burners for not lighting when they should. I guess I should stop and offer some help before he burns himself.
–Day 52–
Two days until Christmas.
I’m not sure what all to say. I mean, Christmas has always been a weird thing for me, at least for the past seven years. After Mom died, the magic seemed to die with her. Sure, there were always presents under the tree, and Dad still had a few years of sanity left before his head became completely consumed by the alcohol, but—
I don’t know.
I’m having a hard time writing this. I never imagined Christmas would be this hard, but I don’t know. Maybe it’s just because I don’t have a lot of focus right now.
Maybe John will give me a prompt.
(Hint hint.)
I guess I’ll end this here. There’s no point in trying to summon magic when there isn’t any left in the world.
–Day 53–
John wants me to tell him about the best Christmas present I’ve ever received. He said it doesn’t have to be a long entry, but seeing as how it’s Christmas Eve and the holiday is almost upon us, he wants to inspire a little cheer in me, even if it might bring up some past memories.
So, without further ado, here we go:
The best Christmas present I ever received was a stuffed deer when I was seven. That day is still vivid in my head, even though it’s eleven years later. I remember waking up, jumping out of bed and running into my parent’s room only to barrel-dive on top of both of them. I scared my mother half to death. She screamed, then laughed when she saw me wiggling between her and my father, who laughed and shrugged me off with half-sleep disregard. My mother asked me if something was wrong. I only said it was Christmas.
It’s Christmas, Mom! I’d cried.
“I know!” she replied. “What did Santa bring you, Dakota?”
I hadn’t run into the living room to see if anything had appeared during the night. My mother’s few simple words had me running from the bedroom.
To keep this entry down a little bit, I’ll explain what happened in a nutshell: I opened all the presents in the room, from the largest to the smallest, until I had only one left. I hadn’t noticed this one at first because it hadn’t been under the tree—it’d been sitting atop a coffee table, completely unannounced and almost missed entirely.
You missed one, my mother said.
I’d unwrapped it with such fervor that the paper came off instantly.
When I opened the box, I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was a stuffed deer, fresh and new with beady black and brown eyes.
On my seventh Christmas, my favorite present was a stuffed deer, one which has sat and probably still continues to sit in my room back home. I’ll probably never see him again (I’d named him Rudolph, because I believed him to be one of Santa’s reindeer, even though he was only a regular white-tailed deer,) but I guess that doesn’t matter.
That was my favorite Christmas present.
It still is.
My favorite Christmas.
–Day 54–
This morning, when I woke up and walked into the kitchen, John pushed a small, gift-wrapped box across the table toward the chair I usually sat in and told me Merry Christmas.
This is for you, he’d said, just after I started saying that I didn’t want or need anything from him. I don’t care if you don’t want anything. I got this for you.
I couldn’t argue with him. John was my savior, my Godsend, I guess you could say. So, in ways Christ-like and whatever else you can manage, I seated myself in my usual spot, unwrapped the present and opened the box.
Inside that small, little box was a gold-colored necklace, a heart with a stag standing proudly in the center in it.
“I found it at the store,” John said, “when I went out to get last-minute groceries.”
There’s little I can say about it. I feel guilty for not getting him anything, but I guess I really can’t. I didn’t go to the store. I didn’t have any way to get him anything. When I mentioned this, John told me not to worry about it, that Christmas was for kids and I was a kid one last time when I was nineteen, but still—
I can’t help but feel touched.
I am touched, actually.
To John—thank you. You’ve made this one of the best Christmases ever.
–Day 55–
It snowed Chri
stmas night.
It looks beautiful outside.
I’m trying to keep these journal entries longer than a few choice words, but right now, it doesn’t feel particularly easy. It’s like I’m trying to force things out when they shouldn’t be forced out to begin with. Is that wrong? To think that your journal is winding down to a close after such a short period of time?
I don’t know.
John and I are going to the store today. He says he wants to get a few things for me, particularly a cell phone, as the one at the house has been acting funky and he wants me to have a little more independence. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll have to write in this, but I figure I’ll stop before I get any further.
John’s ready to go. He just said so.
I’ll stop here.
–Day 56–
Another day without much to talk about. I got a cell phone yesterday and a few pairs of new clothes. John’s finally caught up on the last few pages of my journal and says that he’s incredibly proud of me, even going so far as to give me a hug when I woke up this morning.
It’s nice—to be hugged by someone who means it. It makes me wonder whether or not Josh ever meant it.
I probably shouldn’t be thinking about that. It’ll only upset me if I get myself too far into it and try to figure out what exactly I’m feeling.
I guess I’ll stop here.
–Day 57–
I’m not sure what to say.
I woke up this morning without a whole lot on my mind. I got up, took a shower, brushed my teeth and walked into the kitchen expecting things to be normal, but when John looked at me with a huge grin on his face, I immediately knew something was up.
The first few words out of his mouth?
“Someone wants to publish your journal.”
I was floored instantly. Shock was the first emotion to take me over. Then anxiety quickly replaced it.
What? I’d asked, hardly able to believe what John had said.
“I have a friend in the publishing industry,” John had said, passing a paper across the table to show me. “I’ve been transcribing your journal so there’ll be more than one copy. I erased your name and showed it to him. He wants it.”
Wants it?
“For the world to see, Dakota. For the world to see.”
John said that I don’t have to use my real name in the journal. I’m not sure about that though. I guess that’ll be something I have to decide within the next few days. I could easily say no, that I don’t want anyone to know about what’s happened to me, especially not my dad, but if what John said is true—that I don’t really have to use my real name—then I guess that means it doesn’t matter, right?
This is making me nervous.
I should stop before I keep going.
–Day 58–
It’s two more days until the new year and I don’t have much to say. I obviously still have stuff on my mind, considering what all John has propositioned, but I haven’t really thought about it concretely. Publishing the journal is one of those fleeting thoughts that never really stay in my head for more than a few minutes at a time. I’m trying to think about this rationally. On one hand, someone may read it and get nothing out of it. They might even throw it away, thinking it’s complete fantasy. I mean, what kind of stranger would just let a homeless kid into their house and leave them there and expect them to not steal anything? Then again though, some might see it as what it really is—the truth: the pure, God-honest truth about a man who took a homeless kid in and nurtured him back to health.
If it’s under an alias, will it help people? I’ll never have to give an interview, I’ll never have to have my picture taken. Hell, I won’t even have to ever admit to writing the journal.
I still feel a bit weird about John sharing my personal journal with someone, but if he really did wipe my name from it, like he said, it’s not like anyone’s silently judging me from afar, right?
“It won’t be edited,” John had said. “Just checked for spelling and that sort of thing.”
I guess this is something I should consider.
I’ll stop here.
–Day 59–
I have my cell phone in my pocket, charged and filled with minutes, and my backpack packed with clothes. John’s at work and it’s slowly ticking down to the new year. I’m taking the last few minutes of my time here at John’s house to say goodbye and to tell John that I’m not abandoning him, just going back to something that I think might be right.
John: You are the most important thing that’s ever happened to me, and the most important person that has ever been in my life. You are the one who saved me when I was hurt, nurtured me when I was sick, brought me back to health and made me feel as though I was more than human—a God, someone to be touched, admired and made human just like the right of everyone else. I hate to leave you like this, but last night, while I was lying awake in bed, I realized something that I should have known all along.
A few weeks ago, you asked me if I was in love with Josh.
I am.
I’m leaving you this journal with my blessing and permission for you to have it published. I realized that if someone like you can help me recover like this, maybe someone will someday read this and realize that people really can heal, that people really can be who they want to be and can recover from a lifetime of hardship and trial.
I just wanted to make sure that you knew everything was all right.
I have two-thousand dollars in my wallet. My number’s written on a piece of paper that’s hanging on the fridge. Call me when you get home—I’ll probably be on the road by then, in some guy’s truck heading back to Florida. I’m not doing the prostitute gig anymore. You’ve made me realize that I’m above all those things.
Thank you for being my friend, John, and thank you for helping me realize that someone like me is really worth more than dirt.
Thank you.
You mean the world to me, John.
I’ll never leave you behind.
–ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS–
There isn’t a whole lot to say about this book. The Diary of Dakota Hammell came about not only from an idea, but a need to try and at least supplement myself through the fans of my work. For that, a huge amount of gratitude and thanks goes out to Kirsche, who thought it good and purposeful enough to donate to a project. Thank you, Kirsche—you bought me groceries for two weeks. There’s little I can say for that, but it meant (and still means) a lot to me.
Secondly, I want to thank my amazing editor and friend Helen, who took the time to go through this book and make sure everything was clear and concise. She had a quick turnaround time that both shocked and pleased me, so once again, thank you.
And last but not least, I want to thank everyone who dedicated themselves to this project and followed along with it. There’s no amount of gratitude I can give to all of you.
With that, I hope you enjoyed the book. Though I can’t say whether or not Dakota had a happy ending, as the story ended here with this journal, I can only hope that he did, does and will.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kody Boye was born and raised in Southeastern Idaho. Since his initial publication in the Yellow Mama Webzine in 2007, he has gone on to sell nearly three-dozen stories to various markets. He is the author of Amorous Things, as well as the forthcoming novels Sunrise: The Revised and Expanded Edition and Pretty Things. His fiction has been described as ‘Surreal, beautiful and harrowing’ (Fantastic Horror,) while he himself has been heralded as a writer beyond his years(Bitten by Books.) He currently lives and writes in the Austin, Texas area. You can visit him online at KodyBoye.com.
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